The Adventure of the Lost Body
by Argonaut57
Summary: In the vaults of Cox & Co., Solicitors, of Charing Cross rests a battered tin dispatch box with the name 'John H Watson MD' stenciled on the lid. But what interest could its contents have for the Unsolved Crimes and Open Cases Unit?
1. Chapter 1

**The Adventure of the Lost Body**

Part 1: Two Corpses Too Many

The Abbey Church of St Jude was one of those buildings that can only be found in old, European cities. A tiny, dark, medieval church nestling under the shadows of a concrete 1960's office block on one side and a 1990's glass and steel Business Centre on the other.

Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman and her colleague Jack Halford had had to park some distance away as a result of building work, but the weather was warm and dry, so for once neither of them minded the walk. Jack, however, was shaking his head.

"Bodies in churches are never good news." He opined. "Church-centred communities tend to be close-knit. Lots of old alliances and older feuds, and nobody wants to talk."

"This doesn't look like the sort of church many people go to." Sandra pointed out. "If this is an old unsolved case, the chances are that half the people involved have moved away.

"Hullo, what's this?"

Her attention had been drawn to two figures approaching the church from the opposite direction. One of them, a tall, well-built, bearded man stepped forward, smiling broadly and putting out a hand.

"Sandra! Long time no see! How are things at UCOS?"

She returned his handshake and smile. "Hi, Peter. We keep busy. This is my colleague, Jack Halford. Jack, this Detective Superintendent Boyd, from the Cold Case Unit."

"_The_ Jack Halford?" Asked Boyd. "I read your Hendon lectures on practical policing, excellent stuff! This is Dr Grace Foley, the unit's profiler."

Dr. Foley was a shrewd-looking middle-aged woman who nodded pleasantly, but Sandra had the feeling right away that she was being assessed.

"So," she asked, "Why are we all here?"

Boyd shrugged, "Apparently there are two bodies. One of them may relate to a case we're working on. The other? Well, you may have a new case on your hands, Sandra.

"My pathologist is already inside, shall we?"

The church was small and dark inside, what had once been glorious stained-glass windows were now vague masses of colour under decades of dirt. Scaffolding had been erected near the largest, and several overalled figures were hard at work with assorted cleaning tools.

"This may be a crime scene," Boyd growled, "what are they still doing here?"

"Sir?" A young man came forward. "DS Boyd? I'm DI Sloane. The bodies are down in the crypt, so I didn't see any reason to stop the work up here. There's no access to it from in here, anyway. If you'll come with me?"

Sloane led them out through a small side-door into a narrow alley between the church and the office block. At the back of the church a short flight of stairs led down to a heavy old door which was propped open.

"There was some restoration and repair work going on," Sloane told them as they went. "The crypt is structurally sound, but the monk's tombs were in a bit of a state. They opened them up to brace the insides - stop them collapsing – and found themselves with two extra bodies!"

The crypt was actually brighter than the outside, and Sandra had to blink hard against the sudden glare of arc-lights. For some reason, the ancient stone-work here was more impressive than that of the little church above, and the walls were lined with tombs, most of which were open. All but two had the insides draped with black cloth. The other two lay open, and both held crumbling, skeletal remains. To the police officers, however, the real objects of interest lay in front of them on stretchers.

A woman in white overalls who'd been crouching over one of the stretchers looked up and called, "Boyd? Over here!"

Boyd went over, and Sandra followed, curious. "Sandra, this is Dr Eve Lockhart. Eve, this is Superintendent Pullman. What do you have?"

"This one follows the pattern," Dr Lockhart said, indicating the polythene-wrapped body in front of her. "IC1 female, blonde, naked and wrapped in this sheeting. The body is about five years old, I think, but the wrapping has preserved it. Can't get a clear cause of death until I get it back to the lab, but I don't see any wounds, so she might have been suffocated like the others.

"So this one's ours. The other is over here, Superintendent Pullman. As you can see, the body is fully skeletonised, but apart from that, it's much more recent than the one it was laid on top of, and it's female."

"So it definitely doesn't belong here." Sandra concluded.

"Indeed," Jack remarked. "Post-mortem is a trifle late to break a vow of chastity!"

"Right," said Sandra, "We'll get this one packed up and over to the lab, so we can see what we've got. Peter, good to see you again, we'll have to catch up some time."

"We will," Boyd replied. "Good luck with your bones, Sandra. Keep me posted, OK?"

The UCOS office was its usual hive of inactivity. Brian Lane was riveted to his computer, while Gerry Standing lounged at his desk reading a magazine, it would either be about gourmet cooking or classic cars, Sandra knew.

At one time, the lack of activity had used to drive her mad, now she found the peace and quiet soothing, a respite from her often tempestuous personal life.

"Right!" she said, "We have female skeleton of indeterminate age, dumped who knows how long ago in a monk's tomb. Any ideas?"

"_Nun_ at the moment." Supplied Gerry, raising a universal groan.

"OK," said Sandra, "Anything useful? Brian?"

Brian looked up from his computer. "I've been doing a bit of research on the Abbey Church of St Jude. It was the abbey church of a small Benedictine house founded sometime in the 10th Century. It was a community of scholars, dedicated to the study, copying and translation of important manuscripts. Sort of a _Name__of__the__Rose_ kind of place.

"During the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII's bailiffs seized the place and most of the monks fled. The living quarters, library, scriptorium and so forth became the property of the City of London and were sold off, but the church itself became a small parish one in the Church of England. Later on, when Catholicism was made legal again, it changed back.

"The interesting thing is that the monks who fled took with them, at great personal risk, a number of important manuscripts which are now in the Vatican archives. As a result, there was a Papal Bull issued that states that the church and the tombs of the brothers must be maintained in perpetuity.

"There's almost no congregation, or wouldn't be if it wasn't that there's an Opus Dei house nearby, and the people staying there use St Jude's."

"Aren't that Opus Dei lot a bit dodgy?" asked Gerry.

Jack sighed. "This isn't the _DaVinci__Code_, Gerry! Opus Dei is just a society of people who believe that you can bring spirituality and sanctity into everyday life."

"You're not fond of Catholics, are you, Gerry?" Sandra asked.

"I've got nothing against most of 'em." Gerry told her, "But when I was working with the Paedophile Unit we got too many cases involving Catholic priests. The church always seemed to manage to hide them away where we couldn't get at them!"

This was a sore point with a lot of police officers, so Sandra let it lie. "Well," she said, "We can't do much until the lab gets back with some information about the body. Have we got anything else?"

It was towards the end of the day that Sandra's phone rang. The conversation was short, and at the end of it, she came back into the main office and announced, "That was the lab. It seems our corpse dates from the 1880's – 1890's. A bit beyond our reach, I'm afraid!"

So they went out for a curry, instead.

The following morning, Sandra had the team looking through files to see if anything had turned up that merited a second look. They'd just about given up when Sandra got a call from Reception to say that someone wanted to see them. Jack went down to escort the visitor up and returned shortly with a smart-looking woman in her forties, carrying a briefcase.

"Everyone, this is Ms Natalie Cox, from Cox & Company. Ms Cox, this is Superintendent Pullman, Brian Lane and Gerry Standing."

Ms Cox accepted a seat and a cup of tea, then began to speak in a low-pitched, well-modulated voice.

"Before we get into precisely why I'm here, I think I need to tell you a little history. Cox and Company is a very old firm, founded back in the 19th Century. Nowadays, we specialise in corporate and property work, but back then we dealt mostly with the professional people of the time. We looked after the affairs of bankers, other lawyers, clergymen and doctors. One of our medical clients is perhaps better known for a sideline of his..."

"Of course!" Brian interrupted. "Cox & Co, Solicitors, of Charing Cross! Holders of the famous battered tin dispatch box!"

"Precisely so, Mr Lane." Ms Cox smiled. "I have seen that dispatch box on many occasions, and it does indeed have the name 'John H Watson, MD,' stencilled on the lid!

"Now, Dr Watson was a very precise man. Rather than leave the box and its contents to his heirs, he committed it to the care of the company. He also left some very exact instructions as to what was to be done with the contents. Some were to be released at or after specific dates, others at the request of certain families. There are others which are never to be released at all, except under some very specific conditions."

She put her briefcase on the desk and pulled out a large foolscap envelope. "These documents belong in that category. Dr Watson left instructions that if a female body were ever to be found in or around St Jude's, they were to be passed to the investigating officer. Now, obviously, bodies have been found near there since, but none that so clearly dated from Dr Watson's time as the skeleton that was found there two days ago.

"Father Simons, the priest at St Jude's, honoured a promise made by a 19th Century predecessor by informing us that the skeleton had been found. He also told us that the case had been passed to UCOS, so here I am, following a client's instructions. What you do with the documents is, of course, up to you."

She handed the envelope to Sandra and got to her feet. "Thank you for the tea. Do let me know if anything interesting comes of this."

As Jack showed their visitor out, Sandra examined the envelope. It had been labelled in a bold, copperplate hand "Papers regarding Queen Umale". Inside was a thick wad of foolscap paper, covered in the same handwriting, and a smaller envelope addressed to "The Detective Officer in charge of the case."

Sandra held the letter for a moment. Dr Watson had been the biographer of Sherlock Holmes – one of the first men to apply scientific methods to detection. As such, he was something of an icon to many detectives. She wondered for a moment if, in his wildest dreams, Watson had ever thought that his letter would end up in the hands of a senior police officer who was also a woman!

_Probably__not,_ she thought,_but__that's__not__his__fault.__He__was__a__man__of__his__times,__just__like__I'm__a__woman__of__mine._

Sandra broke the seal and unfolded the letter:

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_If this letter has come to hand, it means that a body has been found in or around the environs of the Abbey Church of St Jude. I assume that my instructions have been carried out, and that you are the Detective Officer in charge of the case. _

_The documents enclosed with this letter detail a case in which I was involved with my great friend Mr Sherlock Holmes. It was not one of his noted successes, but the issues involved were of considerable importance at the time, and for all I know may still be so._

_Whatever the circumstances, these documents may at least allow you to give a name to the unfortunate woman whose body you have discovered. Whether they result in a wider remedy for what I fear was a great injustice is another matter._

_There are certain other matters connected to this case which may be of importance. They consist of an item of jewellery and a written affidavit. These I have requested my solicitors to deposit with a bank for safety. Should your investigations require it, I hereby authorise any agents of Cox and Co to release the items into the custody of the bearer._

_In closing, I can only assume I am addressing someone from what may be many years in the future. I am now a man of full years and have lived a life which has few, if any regrets. I have been afforded the friendship of one of the greatest men of his age, and the love of two of the finest women of any age. The only thing I regret is that, as a man of science and an observer of human nature, I shall not live to see the wonders you almost certainly accept as commonplaces of everyday life._

_Yours faithfully,_

_John H Watson MD_

_1928_

Sandra was of the opinion that the 'wonders' Dr Watson wrote so wistfully of were largely outweighed by the stubborn refusal of human beings to behave any better now than they had then. But then, she was a copper, so didn't see much of people's best side.

"Well?" Gerry interrupted her train of thought.

"Well," Sandra told them all, "it seems that we might have stumbled on a case that Sherlock Holmes couldn't crack. There's probably some historical interest in it, but no police work." She paused, suddenly aware of Brian's eyes on her. Sandra realised that Brian might well sell his soul to get his hands on an original case file from the pen of Dr Watson. She had no doubt the thing would end up in the British Library in due course, but right now, there was no harm in it.

"On the other hand," she went on, "it is evidence in a UCOS case, so it will need to be looked at before we file it all away. Brian, would you do that? I'll need a report as soon as you've finished, but don't rush it."

Brian's hands were shaking slightly as he took the precious manuscript and began to read.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Adventure of the Lost Body**

Part 2: An African Queen

_From the reminiscences of John H Watson, MD._

My reasons for making a record of these events are not my usual ones. When on other occasions I have given accounts of the cases brought to my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, I have done so for one of two reasons. Either the facts of the case were so unique or bizarre as to be worthy of note in their own right, or the nature of the enquiry was such as to give a clear demonstration of those unique skills of observation and deduction Holmes possessed to such a degree.

In this case, the facts themselves were of so mundane a nature as to be, if stripped of their political significance, almost sordid. A theft, a series of cowardly murders and the kidnapping of a child. As to Holmes' involvement in the case, he himself admits that it cannot be counted among his great successes. Two fine people, brother and sister, died and a child was taken, never to be seen again. A stolen item was actually recovered, but could not be returned to its rightful owner. A murderer indeed met the fate he deserved, as did a thief, but a greater villain than either lives and thrives to this day. Worse than this, a nation lives under the heel of a tyrant, with little or no hope of regaining its freedom.

It is for that reason, and that alone, that I commit this memoir to paper. A time may come - years, perhaps decades, from now – when the information herein may help to set right a great injustice.

It was, then, in the spring of the year 18- that our paths crossed with that of Queen Umale and her family. I had, after the tragically early death of my wife Mary, moved back into the old quarters in Baker Street. The house I had shared with my wife was too large and empty for me to tolerate living there alone, and Holmes, though he never admitted as much directly, had never been able to find a fellow-lodger so congenial to his character or so tolerant of his Bohemian ways. I had moved my practice from my home to a rented set of consulting rooms a short ride on the Underground from Baker Street, and with the help of a younger partner it gave me a reasonable income without being too demanding of my time and energies.

That wet April morning found Holmes and I, the breakfast pots lately cleared, sitting on either side of a cheerful fire, reading the morning papers and smoking our first pipes, when the page tapped on the door and informed us that a gentleman was here to see Mr Holmes.

The individual who was ushered into the room shortly thereafter had indeed the bearing, manner and dress of a gentleman. Rather above the medium height and strongly-built, he had a thin but handsome face, keen eyes and dark hair. He looked from one to the other of us, then stepped forward, extending his hand to Holmes.

"Mr Holmes, it is an honour to meet you, sir. I am equally gratified to meet Dr Watson, and glad to find you both here. My name is Adam Adamant, and I have come to consult with you on a matter of some urgency and import."

Holmes gave a wry smile as he waved our visitor to a chair. "People rarely visit me on a purely social basis, Mr Adamant," he pointed out, "matters of urgency and import are, so to speak, my stock in trade. Please feel free to smoke, make yourself comfortable and tell the Doctor and I what brings you here. It must be an unusual affair if a former soldier, a Freemason, crack shot and expert swordsman and boxer such as yourself requires my assistance."

Adamant laughed. "You are everything they say you are, Mr Holmes! Now pray enlighten me as to how you manage to so neatly list my skills upon a moment's acquaintance?"

Holmes shrugged. "These are merely the surface observations. You carry your handkerchief in your sleeve, a habit you share with Watson, and one which infallibly identifies the military man. The seal on your watch chain bears a Masonic emblem, which is, strictly speaking, against the rules of the Lodge. Your pistol-pocket is rather deeper than the average, indicating a weapon with a longer barrel, of the kind favoured by a marksman who does not shy from a longer shot. You also carry a sword-stick – a man does not carry such a weapon if he is not confident of his ability to use it - while your stance and the hardened skin of your knuckles indicate some experience of the noble art of fisticuffs."

Adamant inclined his head. "Entirely correct, and entirely remarkable. It seems that your brother did not gild the lily when he referred me to you."

Holmes was suddenly alert. "You were sent here by Mycroft?"

"Yes, he and I are members of the same club, and when he heard of the task I had been given, he indicated that you might be of some help."

Holmes leaned back in his chair, assuming the usual attitude he took while listening. "Then please outline your problem for me, Mr Adamant. Be as detailed as possible."

"Very well. First you must know that the matter intimately concerns the small Southern African country of Makele. The country is a small enclave of fertile land, surrounded on two sides by near-impassable swamp and jungle, on a third side by an inhospitable coast containing only one small natural harbour and on the fourth by a singularly rugged range of mountains. The result of this is that Makele has suffered less than many other African countries from the depredations of Arab slavers, the warlike attentions of neighbouring tribes and the influence of European powers. Consequently, the line of Queens in this matriarchal society has remained unbroken for the last five centuries at least.

"However, some ten years ago, expeditions sent by German and British companies reached Makele at roughly the same time. Geologists attached to both parties quickly determined that, unlike many other countries in that region, Makele lacks significant deposits of either gold or diamonds. It does, however, hold substantial deposits, and I mean very substantial ones, of bauxite. Are you aware of the significance of that, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes nodded. "Bauxite is the primary, and sole economic, source of aluminium."

"Precisely so. As you will be aware, alloys of aluminium are particularly noted for their lightness, durability and resistance to corrosion. These qualities make them especially valuable in Naval construction. Given the continuing Naval rivalry between Great Britain and Germany, a contest quickly arose between the two nations to gain the friendship of the rulers of Makele.

"The efforts of British envoys – a Scots engineer named Hannay and his son – along with a friendly correspondence between Her Britannic Majesty and the Queen of Makele, Queen Umale, gave Britain the advantage. Seeing this, the Germans have thrown their weight behind the Queen's uncle, Chief Biteki, who has for may years been pressing for his country to change from its traditional matriarchy to what he claims to be a more modern and enlightened patriarchal system."

"An attitude not calculated to endear him to loyal subjects of his Queen," I took the liberty of saying, "or indeed of ours!"

"Quite so, Dr Watson. Chief Biteki is also the head of a small but vocal group of Makeleans who practise the Mohammedan faith. As such, they object to the religious beliefs of many of their countrymen. The larger part of Makele's citizens practise a form of paganism rooted in nature worship, and the veneration of a particular talisman which must be held in the possession of the Queen and passed from her to her daughter.

"This talisman lies at the heart of my reason for calling upon you, Mr Holmes. Queen Umale is in the process of making a private but politically vital visit to London, with the aim of signing a treaty that would ally Makele with Great Britain. This would, of course, bring us the benefits of their source of bauxite, and them the protection of British forces from any internal sedition or external assault by other European powers. As you know, Britain is the dominant Colonial power in that region, and no other nation would wish to challenge us directly on that ground.

"Queen Umale naturally had the Talisman with her, as the law of her country requires. It is a large and valuable piece of jewellery, and not to be worn except on State occasions, so it was secured in a safe in her hotel suite."

"I note, Mr Adamant," said Holmes quietly, "that you say _had_ and _was_. Am I to infer from this that the Talisman is no longer where it belongs?"

"You are correct, Mr Holmes, the Talisman has been stolen!"

"Ah! Now we come to meat of the matter!" Holmes resumed his pose of listening. "Please recount all that is known of the circumstances of the theft. Pray be as precise as to detail as you can."

"Very well. Yesterday evening, Queen Umale expressed a wish to attend the theatre, where a performance of _King__Henry__the__Fifth_is currently being given. We therefore took an early dinner, and left the hotel at about half-past seven, after first putting the Queen's daughter, Princess Asari, to bed. The Talisman was in the safe at this time. We were a party of three; her Majesty, her brother Prince Otogo, and myself. I have been charged by my agency with the protection of Queen Umales' person whilst she is in London. The performance lasted until half-past ten. We took supper at Romano's and returned to the hotel at approximately midnight.

"On our arrival, we found the agent assigned to guard the suite slumped in his chair in the corridor. We thought him asleep, but were unable to wake him. Concerned by this, I committed the Queen to her brother's care and went to the door of the suite, which I found to be unlocked, the keys still in the lock. Later examination proved these to be the keys held by the constable. Upon entering the suite, I found the safe open and its contents gone!

"Her Majesty's first thought was for the safety of her daughter, but her fears were groundless, as the Princess was found to be safely asleep in the nursery, along with her nurse.

"As you may imagine, Mr Holmes, there was little or no sleep for any of _us_. I telegraphed the Ministry directly, they referred me to your brother, who in turn referred me to you, so I came round as soon as I had assured the safety of my charges this morning."

"What of Scotland Yard?" enquired Holmes.

"It was thought best not to involve them. Queen Umales' visit here, whilst not secret as such, is a matter for discretion. It would not do for our European rivals to be alerted to what has happened. The loss of the Talisman would lead to serious repercussion in Makele, if it became known."

"Quite so. How large is the Royal party?"

"Very small. The Queen, her brother, the Princess and her nurse."

"No other servants?"

"None. The manner in which the Royal family of Makele lives is a simple one. At home, there are some servants in the palace, but no personal or body-servants."

"No ladies' maid or valet?" I asked.

Adamant shook his head. "There is no requirement for them. To be honest, the style of dress common in Makele is, how shall I put it, _minimal_? Not sufficient, in any case, to require assistance in dressing. Both Queen Umale and her brother stated that they were entirely capable of bathing themselves and dressing their own hair.

"They have experienced some difficulties with British clothing, so a ladies' maid and a valet were hired locally. Both of them are in service to members of my agency and are entirely trustworthy. In any case, neither lives in, and both were sent home for the day before we left for the theatre. They do not have keys to the suite, and must obtain admittance from the guards.

"There are two sets of keys to the suite, one of which is in my keeping, the other is passed between the guards as they come on shift."

"The nurse is a woman the same age as the Queen, her playmate as a child and as close a friend as a woman in such a position can have. She is devoted to the Princess and her loyalty is beyond doubt."

"I assume," said Holmes, "that the nurse and the child heard nothing?"

"The suite takes up an entire floor," Adamant stated, "There are several rooms and closed doors between the one set aside as a nursery and the main sitting room where the safe was. Princess Asari is but six years old, and as she had spent the afternoon at Regent's Park, she slept with the soundness of any healthy, tired child. The nurse was also asleep, in a bed in the same room, which is her custom. Any sound would have had to be particularly loud to waken her. By her own account, she read for a little after settling the child, then went to bed herself at about half-past nine. Princess Asari, like many young children, is in the habit of rising early and the nurse matches her hours."

"Hotel staff?" Holmes asked.

"The chambermaids come in during the morning and are under supervision from the agents while they do their work. The same applies to waiters if we take meals in the suite."

"And these agents?"

"They belong to a section of my agency which we refer to as 'Lamplighters', men and women trained to watch, guard or shadow people in whom we have an interest. The two men assigned to guard the suite , Carson and Cotterill, are both former Guardsmen – Colour Sergeants – and decorated veterans. They are utterly trustworthy.

"Carson finished his shift at nine o'clock and was relieved by Cotterill. A coffee-pot and cup were found on a small table beside the chair he sat in. By enquiring of the kitchen, I found that he had not, in fact, ordered such a beverage, though it was customary for him to do so at some point in his shift. Nor had any of the staff on duty that night taken the drink up to him.

"Upon further examination, the coffee was found to have been drugged with a powerful opiate. The dosage was in fact so high that only Cotterill's exceptional toughness saved him from death. As it is, he is currently in a sanatorium run by my agency and is unlikely to fully recover for some days, if not weeks."

"I see. One more question, Mr Adamant. Who held the keys to the safe?"

"No one," Adamant shook his head. "The safe is one of the new combination type. The lock is a numbered dial, and the tumblers are operated by entering a set sequence of numbers, or combination. The safe was newly-ordered from Laupers of Clerkenwell, and the combination was delivered personally to Queen Umale in a sealed envelope. Her Majesty committed the sequence to memory, burned the paper and flushed the ashes down the water-closet.

"Mr Holmes, it is of the first importance that the Talisman is recovered. If Queen Umale returns without it, she will lose her throne, and possibly her life, as will her family. Her husband is currently acting as Regent in Makele. If the news that the Talisman is lost becomes known there, the people will rise, as they will believe that the Royal house has lost the favour of the gods. Should anyone else appear with the Talisman in their possession, they will claim the throne as of right. In any of these cases, the blow to Britains' interests will be considerable.

"Can you help us? I need hardly say that the gratitude of Her Britannic Majesty's Government will be generously expressed."

"My fees are fixed," Holmes replied, "I do not vary them except when I remit them entirely. Given the importance of this case I will, of course, give it my best attention.

"For now, Mr Adamant, I suggest you return to your post, and inform Her Majesty that Dr Watson and I will call upon her this afternoon. In the interim, there are enquiries I must make."

As soon as Adamant was gone, Holmes leapt to his feet in the energetic manner I had come to associate with the full use of his powers.

"Come, Watson, we must bustle!" He cried. "Are you able to spend some time away from your practice? This case is of such significance that every move requires a witness."

"I am at your disposal, Holmes." I replied.

"Excellent. Then we shall go at once. Pray bring your revolver, we are about to enter some dubious company."

"There are only two possible motives for this theft," Holmes explained as we rattled along in a hansom. "Profit or politics. I am inclined to think that the former is the less likely, but our first port of call will, I hope, answer that for us.

"Another question is the 'how', and our second destination may give us the answer to that."

The cab brought us to the Albany, that famous rookery of bachelor gentlemen. I was mystified as to how anyone at this address might be able to assist us in this enquiry, but knew better than to question my friends' methods. Holmes passed his card to the doorman, and after a short delay we were shown up to one of the flats. The plate outside bore the name "A J Raffles".

The door opened to Holmes' knock to reveal a young man, strongly built and well-dressed, with an open face and guileless eyes.

"Good morning," he said cheerfully, "you're Mr Holmes? And of course, Dr Watson. My name's Manders. Come in, Raffles will be out in a moment."

The sitting room was the last word in fashionable masculinity, the walls lined with sporting prints. Above the fireplace was a framed group photograph of a cricket team, labelled "The Gentlemen of England", on the mantel beneath it rested a rather battered cricket ball in a stand. As I was examining these, a new voice said:

"I took six wickets with that ball in a game against the Gentlemen of Philadelphia. Do you play, Dr Watson?"

I turned to face the speaker, a slender man of medium height, with sleek dark hair, dressed in a fashionable suit.

"Not since school," I admitted, "I was more of a rugger man, in my day."

"I should have guessed that, from your shoulders," the newcomer responded with a smile, "I'm Raffles, by the way." He turned to my friend. "To what, then, do I owe the honour of a visit from Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

Holmes faced the man coolly. "Mr A J Raffles, noted slow bowler and man-about-town. Your family, though armigerous, was impoverished, barely able to afford the public school education your birth demanded. Yet here you live, at no small rent, and indulge yourself in all the privileges of the well-off, without any visible means of support. None of your society friends asks where the money comes from, they don't care, and anyway it would be impolite to ask.

"But I am not so polite, Mr Raffles, and I ask those questions. I ask questions, and I find answers. Answers in a string of unsolved jewellery thefts, from society homes. Thefts which have one thing in common – the presence in the house, shortly before the thefts, of a certain noted slow bowler and man-about-town."

Raffles was equally cool as he responded, offering a cigarette box. "Do have a Sullivans', Mr Holmes. Please forgive me if I don't fall to my knees and beg for mercy at your revelations. You have no proof, and anyway cannot arrest me, even if I were responsible for any of these depredations."

Holmes was smiling as he accepted a cigarette. "Indeed, I have absolutely no proof. But then, none of the people you have robbed have ever engaged my professional services, so I have had no cause to obtain it. I do, however, know that stolen jewellery must be sold – 'fenced' is the term, as you and I both know. I am acquainted with every notable fence in London, and not one of them would be loth to tell me if they have ever done business with you. After all, I know things about them they would much rather did not come to the ears of Scotland Yard. Now as it happens, I am engaged in a case of some importance, and I am sure that if I were to receive some information regarding that, the matter of society burglaries would slip my mind entirely."

During this conversation, I had noticed young Manders manoeuvring himself within reach of the poker. Moving quietly, I intercepted him, taking him by the wrist and putting some slight pressure into my grip. Our eyes met; the boy was strong enough, and brave, but he had never been in real combat, and had the sense not to push matters.

Raffles smiled back at Holmes. "Let us say, just for amusement's sake, Mr Holmes, that I might be in some way inconvenienced if certain – _businessmen_ – were to stray from their standards of confidentiality. What kind of information might prevent such an eventuality."

"Do you – hypothetically – know anything of the Makele Talisman?" asked Holmes.

"I know that Queen Umale is in London, and that the Talisman must be with her. Are you saying that it has been stolen?" Raffles' gave a short, humourless laugh. "That is a fool's game, Mr Holmes. There is no profit to be had in stealing such a piece. Intact, it cannot be sold safely. Broken up, the gems lose most of their value."

"The Talisman need not have been stolen for its intrinsic value." Holmes pointed out. "There are those who might wish to possess it for other reasons. In certain hands, it might be the price of a kingdom. Such people might think it worthwhile to pay an expert to obtain it for them."

This time, Raffles' laugh had humour in it. "Mr Holmes, the society burglar whose hypothetical existence we have discussed would be the veriest amateur. Anyone wishing such an item taken would do well to hire a professional."

"Quite so," Holmes nodded. "There are only a few capable of such a feat. To find them all would be time-consuming, and there are other matters for me to deal with. If someone who had knowledge of that profession were to make enquiries, and to send a message to Baker Street before the end of today it would, I think, drive other considerations out of my mind."

"Then it is to be hoped that such news will arrive," Raffles said smoothly. "Should I, perhaps, come across such a person in the course of the day, I will impress upon them the urgency of the matter."

Holmes nodded, and we took our leave. As we stood outside, looking for a cab, Holmes remarked to me, "Our next encounter might not be so polite, Watson."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Adventure of the Lost Body**

Part 3: Consulting the Bones

Sandra could hear Gerry's voice as she came down the corridor. He was quite clearly arguing the toss with someone, and Jack's quieter interventions also had an edge she hadn't often heard. She quickened her pace and turned the corner to see her two team members confronting her boss, Strickland. The next thing she saw was the crime scene tape across the door to the UCOS office.

"Gerry! Jack! Shut it!" she barked, then turned to Strickland. "What exactly is going on, sir?"

Strickland turned to her with an air of relief. "There's been a break-in, Sandra," he said without preamble, "Your office has been turned over..."

"And he won't let us in to see what's missing!" Gerry fumed.

"I couldn't, Gerry," Strickland said patiently. "You and Jack are no longer serving officers. I had to wait for Sandra, but now we can all go in. Just don't go messing things about..."

"We do know about forensics, sir." Jack pointed out. "But surely this must have been an inside job? The security..."

"There was a power cut," Strickland informed them as they went into the office, "Everything was out for at least half an hour at about three this morning."

"What about the back-ups?" Gerry wanted to know.

"This is an old building, Gerry," Strickland told him, "The back-ups we have only cover the sensitive and essential areas. I'm afraid a lot of people around here still don't consider UCOS high priority."

"Hmph!" Gerry grumped, then allowed, "Well, that's not your fault, sir."

That at least was true, Sandra admitted to herself. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Robert Strickland was a political animal, and originally had been keen to push UCOS onto high-profile cases that would enhance his own reputation. Over the years, however, he had come to appreciate the units' role in providing closure for the families of victims, as well as their ability to tie old cases into current investigations with surprising results. He was now a firm and unequivocal supporter of the teams' work. He was also clearly just as upset and angry about the break-in as Sandra and the others.

It took less than ten minutes for them to discover what was missing.

"All the stuff we had from Cox and Co. " Jack announced. "The letter, Dr Watsons' manuscript, everything!"

"Dr Watson?" Strickland asked. "_The_ Dr Watson? What was one of his manuscripts doing here?"

Sandra briefly outlined the events of the previous day, then said. "We assumed it was a dead case, but apparently somebody else didn't."

"So now we have nothing but an old skeleton." said Strickland grimly.

"Err, not quite," Brian said from the doorway. He held up the old foolscap envelope. "I'm sorry Sandra, but I thought it was a dead case, too. I was so keen to read the manuscript that I took it home with me last night!"

Sandra almost laughed with relief. Gerry and Jack both did, and even Strickland was grinning as he said, "That's rather against the rules, Brian, you should have made a copy to take home. But since it wasn't a live case back then, I think I can overlook it this time.

"Right! This office is out of bounds until the SOCOs have been through it, but I've set you up some laptops, desks and phones for today in that old waiting room down the hall. This is still your case, Sandra, so anything you need..."

He was interrupted by the phone ringing, at a nod from Strickland, Jack picked it up, spoke for a moment, then put it down and announced, "That was the morgue. Somebody tried to steal our skeleton last night! Got in through a toilet window. They'd have done it, too, but Dave Phillips caught them at it and they did a runner."

"I'm not surprised," said Gerry, "I'd do a runner if I saw Lurch coming towards me in a dark mortuary!"

That made them all laugh. David Phillips, alias 'Lurch', was a night porter at the local morgue. He was in his early thirties with a cadaverous face, a gloomy manner and the build and muscles of an American footballer.

"Not that it matters," Sandra pointed out, "The pathologists won't get much out of a 200 year old skeleton!"

"Ah!" said Strickland, "They might not, but there's somebody in London right now who might. I've got to make a phone call, you get down to the morgue Sandra, and I'll get her to meet you there."

Strickland made off, and the UCOS team went to their temporary office.

"What did you get from that manuscript, Brian?" Sandra asked.

"Quite a bit, but I've not finished it yet," Brian admitted. "But I did find this. It was between the pages."

He handed Sandra an envelope, which she opened carefully. Inside was a brief letter:

_To Whom It May Concern,_

_The Bearer hereof is duly authorised by me to open, and if necessary remove the contents of, Safety Deposit Box No. 795, held at Minter and Sanders Bank, of Curzon Street._

_ John H Watson MD_

There was also a small key.

"Right!" Sandra said, "Jack, you and I are off to the morgue. Brian, find out if that bank still exists, and if not, who bought it out and who has that box. Then you and Gerry get over there and fetch whatever's in it back here!"

There are two kinds of morgue in London, and this was one of the first kind. A brick-built Victorian edifice with large windows that nevertheless didn't manage to dispel the gloom, distempered walls with green tile wainscoting and aged linoleum on the floor. What it did have in common with the glass and concrete, brightly-lit modern structures was the smell – a blend of disinfectant and formaldehyde that never quite fully covered the ever-present hint of decomposition.

Sandra and Jack had questioned Phillips, who was gloomier than ever at being held past the end of his shift. He could tell them little more than that the thieves had been young, teenagers maybe, that one was white, the other Asian and that both had taken off like scared rabbits when he came on them.

"Local tearaways," Jack decided, "Hired to do a break-in. Even if the locals do catch 'em, they won't be able to tell us much."

At that point, the receptionist ushered two more people, a man and a woman, into the office Sandra had commandeered. Both of them were tall. The man was well-built and fit-looking in a dark suit, white shirt and tie; he had a ruggedly handsome face, and looked about him with lively curiosity. The woman was slender, smartly and expensively dressed, with a sharp-featured, attractive face, a wealth of dark hair and penetrating light-blue eyes. She approached Sandra directly.

"You're the people Commissioner Strickland asked us to meet?" She asked in a low-pitched American accent. "I'm Dr Temperance Brennan, from the Jeffersonian Institute."

The man stepped up beside her and bestowed a dazzling grin on Sandra. "Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI." He announced.

Jack knew Sandra well enough to know that she was impressed – especially by Agent Booth – but not a trace of it showed as she replied.

"Detective Chief Superintendent Sandra Pullman, Unsolved Crimes and Open Cases Squad. This is Jack Halford."

Booth's grin widened as he pumped Jack's hand. "Mr Halford, I remember you! You came over to Quantico and did a couple lectures when I was still a trainee. "Practical Policing", you called them, real useful."

"I'm glad you remember," Jack replied, "But that was a long time ago."

"Mr Strickland said you had something for me to look at? A skeleton?" Dr Brennan asked Sandra.

"That's right," Sandra nodded. "I don't know if you can help us with it, it's over 200 years old."

Booth laughed. "Doesn't matter how old it is. If it's a skeleton, Bones here can tell you its life-story in ten minutes!"

"That's not true, Booth," Dr Brennan replied seriously. "But I will be able to give some indications about the person."

Light dawned on Sandra. "You're a forensic anthropologist." She said.

Brennan nodded. "I work at the Jeffersonian, but I'm also part of a team that helps the FBI when the case involves decomposed or partial remains. I got invited to a conference at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital, which is why I'm in London. Booth came along because he has some leave and we had a case in London a while back, but didn't have much time to look around."

"This is one crazy old town!" Booth commented. "You're walking past a skyscraper, then you turn a corner and boom! Gothic church or a medieval castle!"

By this time, they had reached the autopsy room where the skeleton had been put out. Sandra had seen bodies in every state of decay, but naked skeletons affected her in a different way. She didn't find them disgusting, or even particularly tragic. Instead, she was always amazed by how small and frail the scaffolding of the human body was.

Dr Brennan went to work immediately, after a brief introduction to Dr Spellman, the pathologist on the case. The American scientist worked with intense concentration, measuring with tape and callipers, examining the skull and long bones intently, occasionally putting questions to Spellman or looking at the slides he'd prepared. Finally, she straightened and announced:

"The skeleton is of an African female, approximately five feet eight inches tall, well-nourished at the time of death. She'd had at least one child and was between twenty-five and thirty years old when she died.

"Was anything found with the skeleton?"

Spellman shrugged. "There were some scraps of fabric in the coffin that obviously didn't belong to its official occupant. We've analysed them, and they match Victorian-type fabrics. That's odd, because Victorian women tended to wear underwear that could stand up to an atom bomb, but we didn't find any stays or anything like that.

"What we did find – and this is odd – is some hair."

"Hair quite often survives decay." Brennan pointed out.

"Yes, but it's not what you'd expect." Spellman said. "It was so unusual I had the DNA checked, and it does match the skeleton. You say this woman is African, and I agree with you – you'd know better than I, anyway – but when she was alive, she'd have had shoulder-length, white hair!"

Brennan stared at him, then shrugged. "It's unusual," she said slowly, "But not impossible. She might have had some Caucasian blood, or even been an albino."

"That's what I thought," Spellman agreed. "It's just a point of academic interest, of course, but it could be useful if anyone's looking for descendants."

"Academic points are all very well," Sandra interrupted, "but this is potentially a murder investigation. Can you give me cause of death, Dr Brennan?"

Brennan returned to the skeleton. "No gross injuries. No blunt force trauma. No nicks or cuts on the bones to indicate stabs and nothing to show bullet-wounds. What's this?"

She'd been examining the neck area with a magnifying lens, now she picked up a pair of tweezers and tugged something clear. Spellman proffered a specimen bag which she dropped the object into. Spellman labelled the bag and then handed it to Sandra, who examined it. It was a sliver of some dark wood, about an inch-and-a-half in length.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It resembles the poison darts used by numerous tribes around the world." Dr Brennan told her. "They're usually used with blowpipes, but this one was actually driven into the inter-vertebral space between the first and second cervical vertebrae. It must have lodged directly in the spinal nerve."

Booth and Jack blew out their cheeks in an almost identical expression of incredulity.

"Nobody could blow that hard!" Jack said.

"It would have been an incredible shot, if it was deliberate." Booth pointed out. "I'm a Marine Corps sniper, and I'm not sure I could place a bullet that precisely!"

"True," Dr Brennan said, "But lodged where it was, it wouldn't have needed to be poisoned to cause some kind of paralysis or even death."

Sandra handed the bag back to Spellman. "Get that analysed, please, soon as you can." She turned to Brennan. "Dr Brennan, thank you for your help."

"Glad to help. When you solve this case, will you let me know? Commissioner Strickland has my email."

"I'll do that." Sandra promised.

The young Japanese woman at Miyagi & Patel Securities was courteous, helpful and efficient.

"795 is one of our older boxes," she told Brian and Gerry as she matched Dr Watson's letter against a scanned image on her PC, "so it doesn't have the password and other measures set up that current ones do. But this is obviously Dr Watson's signature, so I can give you the box. You just need to fill this form in, in case there are queries later."

The box, Gerry thought, was probably a valuable antique in itself. When the assistant had left them alone with it, Gerry put the key in the lock. Thankfully, it turned easily. Inside was a flat box. Gerry lifted it out, opened it and gave a low, awed whistle. Resting on the black velvet lining was a heavy necklace. The centrepiece was a large, flawlessly-cut yellow stone, whilst the golden chain was embellished with a series of small but deeply-coloured emeralds.

"That," Brian declared, "must be the Makele Talisman! But what's it doing here? According to Dr Watson, it was stolen."

"Well, you haven't read the rest of the manuscript yet," Gerry told him, "so let's not jump to conclusions. There's something else in here."

He lifted out something wrapped in cloth. It was heavy and metallic, the shape familiar. "Feels like a gun." He told Brian, as he unwrapped it.

It was a gun, but not one of any type either man had seen. The basic shape was that of a revolver, but where the cylinder would normally be was something that looked like a gas-tank. There was no hammer, and the breech was forward of the tank. With some difficulty, Gerry opened the breech and examined the barrel.

"This is well narrow," he remarked, "couldn't get a bullet down this! Looks like it's made to fire some kind of needle. By the look of that tank, it works on compressed gas."

"Be almost silent." Brian pointed out. "An assassin's weapon. Custom-made, probably."

"By who, for who, and when?" Gerry asked.

Brian shrugged. "There was a lot of experimentation going on back then with guns. Borchardt and Mauser were working on the first automatics, but other people were looking at different things. Anyway, we'd better get this lot back to the office."

"And you'd better get back to that manuscript." Gerry said firmly. "I want to see how it comes out!"

Strickland was not a man to be easily impressed or intimidated, so the tough-looking individual sitting across his desk from him inspired caution rather than fear.

"This investigation your UCOS unit is working on seems to have upset some people." Harry Pearce stated without preamble. "We've had a message from the Germans that their friends in Makele are anxious that it should be shelved, permanently."

Strickland raised his eyebrows. "The case is nearly 200 years old, what's the problem?"

Pearce shrugged. "Damned if I know. But I can speculate. Look, the last Queen of Makele disappeared in London in the 1800's, and after a bit of a tussle, her uncle took over. He had – his family still has – some kind of sacred necklace that entitles them to the throne. The country came under the German sphere of influence after that, and the Germans are their only friends in Europe, now.

"The ruling family of Makele, along with most of the government, are Muslims. Technically, the entire country is supposed to be Muslim, but most of the people still follow some kind of pagan religion. It's led to a virtual police state – lots of repression and unrest. But that hasn't stopped Makele from providing terrorist training camps for al-Qaeda. They get paid well for that. Your people are on the fringe of something very big, Mr Strickland."

"Are you saying, Mr Pearce, that we should stop investigating?" Strickland asked carefully.

"I didn't say that," Pearce assured him. "This is just by way of a friendly heads-up. You should be on your guards for more interference, and some of it might get nasty.

"In the meantime," Pearce passed a manila folder across the desk, "Here's some information you might find useful. Chap's a university lecturer who left Makele some years ago and can't go back. He's an expert on the country's history, might be able to help."

"I take it that Her Majesty's Government wouldn't object to a change in the Makele government?" Strickland asked slyly.

"Let's just say that the current incumbents are not our idea of nice people." Pearce stated. "We wouldn't rush to sympathise if they got upset."

"I'll bear that in mind." Strickland promised.


End file.
